


5 Discrete Kinds of Tingles

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Things, Bathing, Complete, Flirting, Fluff, Jaskier POV, M/M, Oneshot, Tingles, a little bit of protective jaskier, post-sex feelings, sensory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23145715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: He can feel Geralt’s hot breath on his ear. It’s like there’s electricity under his skin, tingles rushing down his spine towards his core.The five different kinds of tingles that Jaskier experiences when travelling alongside the White Wolf.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 345





	5 Discrete Kinds of Tingles

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a conversation on Tumblr! Difficult to know what to tag as - a series of five little scenes where Jaskier gets his tingle on.

**1.  
**

The familiar vibration of a note that spreads through his fingers, up his arms, across his shoulders and down, down into his chest where it meets with the flawless harmony of his voice. The little shudder of joy when he finds the perfect words, the perfect rhyme, when the quill scratches across the paper like it has a life of its own.

The tension in his stomach, even now, before he steps onto a stage, into a tavern, into a hall, with his lute slung over his shoulder and his fingers twitching at the strings. That first note – that first, singular note – and then release, until all his fears are gone and there’s only music: music and applause. 

He smiles until his face aches, until his skin tingles, until the music is spent. Tomorrow, he’ll do it all again.

**2.**

Trees close in like waves, shutting off the world beyond. They’re slightly too tall, the leaves slightly too dark, the air slightly too still. In the forest, here on the edge of the map, the beast is king.

Jaskier leans against a tree and waits, ignoring the flitting shapes that twist in the corner of his vision. He’s just imagining things.

Out there in the darkness, Geralt is hunting. They don’t know what the villagers have sent them after this time, working from stuttered stories alone. There’s something haunting the village, something huge and dark and deadly, trailing blood behind it.

Jaskier presses his back against the tree, reassured by the solid wood affording him a little protection. In his hand he grips a silver dagger, as sharp as one of Geralt’s swords, his knuckles white around the hilt. 

He isn’t trembling. He suspects – perhaps uncharitably – that he’s bait. 

Geralt had warned him to stay in the village, but he’d refused. As he peers into the darkness, ears straining for unusual noises, he wonders if that had been a mistake. It’s been over a decade of travelling, now, and Geralt still thinks he’s only here for the story – for the blood-stained ballad at the end. But it’s so much more than that.

His fingers flex against the leather-bound blade. In his chest, his heart is thudding against his ribs. All he can do is wait.

Behind him – the crunch of leaves. The snap of a twig. He stops breathing.

There’s a snarl, low and rippling, just behind his left shoulder. 

His skin explodes into goosebumps, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, a tingling tremor running down his spine.

There’s another snarl and the crack of claws on bark. The tingle spreads up his scalp, down his arms.

The bark fractures, and he spins around, the silver blade almost invisible in the dark.

**3.**

The pleasant glow of good beer and a warmth hearth is a welcome respite from weeks of trudging through fields and sleeping on forest floors. For once, Jaskier has left his lute in the little room they’ve bartered for the night, too tired for a performance. The quiet huddle of people and the smell of fresh bread is enough for him this evening. 

Geralt is still upstairs, he knows, scrubbing away at the monster blood that’s coating his skin. Before heading down to the hubbub of the tavern to seek out food and drink, Jaskier had helped him wash the guts from his hair, tugging at the strands and dragging gentle fingernails along Geralt’s scalp until he’d moaned. He’d sat behind him, kneeling on the hard, wooden floor with his chest pressed against the copper tub, pleased with the involuntary response his fingertips had elicited from the witcher. He’d allowed himself just one moment of weakness – pressing his hands onto Geralt’s warm, damp shoulders – before excusing himself. 

He’d slid from the room before he could do anything he may come to regret later. Before he could tug aside that long, wet curtain of hair and press his lips – press his _teeth_ – to Geralt’s neck. Before he could whisper filthy nothings into his ear. Before he could glide a hand over his shoulder, down his chest and below the water to see what he might find there.

He sits in a little alcove, sipping on his beer, when he senses something behind him. He stiffens, but does not turn. The air suddenly smells of chamomile.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s voice, low and rumbling, just behind his ear. The hairs on his arms rise automatically and a shudder dances over his shoulders. He sits up a little straighter.

“I thought you’d be performing.”

His voice is dark and delicious - like no voice Jaskier has ever heard before. He can feel Geralt’s hot breath on his ear. It’s like there’s electricity under his skin, tingles rushing down his spine towards his core.

“We’ve been travelling for so long, Geralt,” his name tastes like fine wine, “I needed a night’s rest before I can perform for anyone.”

“For anyone?”

There’s another little shudder, that blissful tingle over his scalp, down his arms, swirling in his stomach. Geralt’s mouth is so close to his ear he can feel his lips brushing - just barely - against his skin. Geralt speaks again before he has a chance to respond.

“If you’re weary, perhaps we should spend the night upstairs, away from all this noise?”

Jaskier lets out the breath he’s been holding onto. When he turns, Geralt is already walking back towards the staircase.

**4.**

The air is cool and crisp, and the breeze that spills in through the open window carries with it the smell of rain. It’s cooling against Jaskier’s skin, a small comfort against the bruises purpling his ribs.

From behind, a hand finds its way to his side - warm and gentle, if a little calloused. He reacts instinctively to the touch, despite the bruises, his breath catching in his throat. 

“You know this wouldn’t happen if you didn’t keep getting into fights.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier murmurs as Geralt rubs his hand across his waist, “and I wouldn’t keep getting into fights if those peasants stopped hurling insults at you.” 

“Always one for the heroics.” Geralt’s other hand finds its way up his back, kneading at the tense little knot at the top of his spine.

“I’d hardly call it heroic,” Jaskier mutters, leaning into the touch.

“Hmm.”

Geralt moves his hand from his waist and up his torso, fluttering over the bruises, careful not to squeeze too tight. There’s a huff of warm breath on Jaskier’s shoulder, and then the familiar feeling of Geralt’s lips against his neck, dragging along his skin. It tingles beneath their touch, and the little hairs at the nape of Jaskier’s neck stand on end as Geralt continues upwards, reaching his ear with a soft, fleeting kiss - and the lightest tug of teeth.

Jaskier turns. One of Geralt’s hands remains at his waist, the other now resting on his collarbone, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly at the sensitive skin. Jaskier isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to this touch, to the way Geralt’s hands - so skilled at killing and fighting - hover over his skin. He’s so _delicate_ , so soft. 

When he wants to be.

Geralt casts an appraising eye down Jaskier’s body, taking in the bruises, the damage. Jaskier melts under his gaze.

“I’ll have to remember to be gentle with you,” he says, as his hand brushes over a particularly nasty mark.

“ _Must_ you?” Jaskier wets his lips and smiles.

Geralt tilts his head to one side. “For now,” he says, pressing his thumb just a little more into the well of Jaskier’s clavicle, “until these bruises are gone.” 

Jaskier wants quite desperately to kiss him, but Geralt moves out of reach, his hands still dancing over his skin. He lets one hand drop, drifting over one of his nipples and down towards his hip bone. Jaskier shudders a little, his skin on fire, tingling all over. 

“Geralt…” he mutters, unable to say much else.

Geralt doesn’t respond - only hums. His hands continue to explore, as if keen to touch every inch of him. He slides them up his chest, along his shoulders, down his arms. He raises one of Jaskier’s hands to press a kiss to the soft skin of his wrist. Jaskier is sure that Geralt can feel his frantic heartbeat against his lips. He pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around him, squeezing his arse.

“Geralt,” he says, finally, suppressing a little shiver, “it isn’t that I’m not enjoying this; but do you intend to take me to bed some time this century?”

Geralt smiles, and holds him a little tighter. Finally, he presses his lips to Jaskier’s - but soft, and gentle - a half-touch, like a ghost.

“Patience, bard,” he says.

Jaskier’s skin ignites.

**5.**

Breathless, bathed in sweat, Jaskier lies on the flat of his back, staring at the starry sky above him. His heart beats out a hurried rhythm in his neck. Involuntary shudders still wrack his body, pleasurable waves making his toes curl. 

Geralt is suddenly leaning over him, his hair - freed from its tie and hanging around his face in waves - brushing against Jaskier’s arm. Even that delicate, tickling sensation is too much, making him shiver. Geralt gives him a smug, satisfied grin, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t say anything - doesn’t _need_ to say anything - but instead reaches over and drifts a gentle finger over Jaskier’s bare skin, across his collarbone, down his chest. The feeling is too great, too much - already overstimulated, even this light touch is enough to make him tremble. 

The tips of his fingers tingle as he tries to regain his breath.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please come say hello and scream about this ship with me over on my Tumblr: [A-Kind-Of-Merry-War](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/) 💖


End file.
